


Where Seeds Can Grow

by happilyinsane13



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, F/M, Happy Ending, I promise, Kind of angsty, M/M, Some Fluff, and kick ass Dís
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-01-24
Updated: 2015-01-24
Packaged: 2018-03-08 20:45:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,212
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3222866
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/happilyinsane13/pseuds/happilyinsane13
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bilbo cannot live under a mountain of stone, it was not in his nature. But that did not mean Thorin could not try to keep him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Where Seeds Can Grow

          Thorin and his sister-sons miraculous survival should have been a cause for unadulterated celebration. It was at first. As the dwarves of the line of Durin were being treated by the combined efforts of Tauriel and Gandalf the halls of the mountain were able to ring with brief bursts of merry-making between burying the dead and clearing the halls of Erebor of decay. Bilbo and Thorin’s company had been inexplicably happy as the man, at once King Under the Mountain as well as simply Thorin Oakenshield, slowly healed from his battle wounds. Bilbo did his best to make Thorin comfortable and the darkness of the mountain seemed to aid Thorin in his healing process. He had beaten the dragon sickness and therefore he was now surrounded by a home that was safe. Within his revived quarters, a full bed covered in furs and dim torches lighting his face, Bilbo witnessed the steady return of color in Thorin’s face and the determination to rule his kingdom with it.

            Bilbo tried desperately to hide his own deterioration. He hid in the shadows to disguise his paling skin, he never leaned in too close to hear Throrin’s voice when he spoke, and soon enough he no longer offered Thorin a hand to hold at night when Bilbo’s pulse started to fade. When Bilbo was not visiting Thorin or his nephews he desperately climbed to the top of the entrance to Erebor. He would clutch the edges of the stone, knuckles turning white then red in the biting winter wind and he would gasp, desperately trying to breathe fresh air not clogged by dirt, smoke, coal, and gold. He would stand there, looking over the ruined field and the rebuilding of Dale, looking, reaching, hoping, _crying_ for the sun amongst the grey clouds. When he would descend back into the mountain the brief respite he had would fade in his mind, as if it never existed, as the darkness swallowed him.

            A month after the battle Thorin was able to walk and Fili, not wanting to be left behind in any sense by his uncle, followed him. Kili, however, stayed in bed awhile longer.

            “Must have really nicked something important,” he said with a shrug while Thorin and Fili leered at him. “Maybe a kidney? Oh don’t look like that!” Thorin had dared to let a crack of worry show, and Fili had leaned forward as if he had been about to pounce to his younger brother’s aid.

            Bilbo chuckled at the thought of that meeting as he sat peeling Kili an apple. It was one of the few days the elf Tauriel had not come to check on Kili. He was at once sure that she was the reason Kili prolonged his bedridden state as she would no longer have a reason to visit if he was fully healed. A dark fear was eating away at Kili, as if the fair elf he had become enamored with would be taken away and he would then be left, trapped with no light. Bilbo could not help but empathize. Bilbo’s chuckle soon transformed into a cough and it became so violent that he lost a grip on the apple and the knife he was holding, slicing the skin from the bottom of his thumb and half of the bottom curve of his palm. Blood began to seep out from the gash, quickly running down his hand and dropping down to the floor. Kili bolted up in his bed, taking Bilbo’s hand in his own rather roughly.

            “You are not well,” he said, inspecting his hand, this time more gently.

            “Well, no, not after slicing my hand open like an idiot,” Bilbo said nonchalantly. He tried to remove his hand from Kili’s grasp but Kili held on tight, the blood slickening the grip although it remained secure.

            “No, Master Baggins,” Kili said, this time more firmly. “You have not been well since entering the mountain.”

Bilbo tried not to look at Kili’s sad face as the young dwarf ripped the white linen of his sheet in order to fasten Bilbo a makeshift bandage for his hand. As Kili worked Bilbo felt tempted to scold him for ripping the sheets, laugh about feeling ill, say anything to remove that look of sorrow and pity taking the gleam out of Kili’s eyes but somehow he no longer had the strength.

            Bilbo’s admission of illness finally committed the final blow and all he remembered was Kili screaming desperately for help, being pulled into the young dwarf’s arms before a wise, booming voice is swimming in his head, “My dear Bilbo…”

            A white beard…

            He’s eaten by darkness again and yet it is more comforting than the kind of black, jagged edges he has found in the Lonely Mountain.

 

            Bilbo’s eyes are tired but his limbs are sore but he feels as if he does not try and use them he will never awaken. Slowly he pry’s his eyes open, his eyelids feel heavy and the corners of his eyes feel dry. Two faces swim into vision, both with great hats that neither can seem to part with.

            “Bofur… Gandalf,” he croaks.

            Bofur snaps his head up from the toy train he was whittling while Gandalf, who looked like he had been staring at Bilbo for a long time, a pipe that had long stopped smoking in his mouth, smiled.

            “How are you feeling Bilbo?”

            _Terrible_ , Bilbo wanted to say. _Like I’m about to suffocate_. However, Bilbo ended up asking, “What’s happening to me?”

            Bilbo knew what had _happened_ to him, yes, but he did not know what was _happening_. Why could he not live amongst his companions? Why could he not thrive in Erebor? He saw Gandalf shift in his seat and Bofur lower his gaze to the wooden train in his hands. Bilbo had to know. His own denial refused to let his brain connect the dots on his own.

            “To put it simply,” Gandalf sighed, trying to busy himself with lighting his pipe, “you’re a hobbit my dear Bilbo.”

            Bilbo raised an incredulous eyebrow. “I’m quite aware what species I am Gandalf, thank you very much,” he scoffed, “but that doesn’t answer my question!” Bofur continued working on his train, the wood seemed to almost glimmer in the soft candlelight of the room and Gandalf smiled, his eyes betraying a mixture of disappointment and sadness.

            “Bilbo you were not meant to live in darkness. A hobbit needs gardens, sunshine, the wind in his hair, and a cozy hobbit hole to crawl back to for his meals and sleep,” Gandalf said all of this looking straight into Bilbo’s wide eyes, refusing to break the spell of realization. “An adventure is one thing but you were constantly on the move with a mission in place. A temporary thing. The dark halls of a mountain with nothing but stone are not your home. The proof is in your pocket.”

            For a terrifying second Bilbo thought Gandalf meant the Ring and desperately reached for his vest on the nightstand next to him. As his hand delved into the depths of his pocket his hand met two things at once. The Ring, which pulsed with power, and… Bilbo pulled out the tiny acorn he had taken from Beorn’s own garden and Gandalf gazed at Bilbo kindly.

            “You took that for your own garden, a telltale sign that you know where home is. The mountain has not given you dragon sickness but, quite literally, a kind of homesickness. You will… you will sure fade away dear Bilbo, if you stay here.”

            Surprisingly it was Bofur who flinched at this news as if it burned him, almost cutting himself with his tool. Bilbo just stared blankly at Gandalf, and the wizard knew that Bilbo was aware he was right but was falling into something akin to despair. This would not aid his recovery.

           Gandalf stood, having to bend his head down so he would not hit the low ceiling. “Look after Bilbo, Bofur. I must alert Thorin that our young hobbit is awake.”

           Bofur gave a barely perceptible nod and Gandalf walked out of the room, shutting the heavy oak door behind him. Bilbo sat in the bed numbly and finally, with no strength to support his back any longer, fell against the pillows with a heavy thud. He ignored Bofur’s look of concern and continued to muddle through what he had just been told. It made a horrible kind of sense. He hated the darkness, really, the cold stone that would stick out and make him shiver. The jagged edges he walked on for a daily business and the sight of gold seemed to make him sick. There was no clean air down here and it felt like he was choking on smog, his lungs growing black and heavy within his chest. He then thought of the Shire, the beautiful Shire with its green fields and flowers, his open garden where he would sit and smoke or read. Where a fresh zephyr would travel through and play with his hair. Although he knew, deep within his heart, that things would never be the same if he returned (he could never identify with his fellow hobbits anymore) it was a place of comfort and safety, a place where he could _breathe_. The only reason he had remained in Erebor was to ensure the recovery of Thorin, Fili, and Kili. That had been truly his reason, at first. He could have left a couple of weeks ago when Thorin and Fili had begun to walk and resume their duties as the ruling Durin family. He knew Kili was secretly well but Bilbo made excuses. The weather was bad, he would get lost, he should wait for Kili to get up off his arse and just ask Tauriel to be with him. But no, he stayed because he did not want to leave his newfound friends, who could exist perfectly fine without him, and… and…

           “Bilbo,” Bofur said and it startled Bilbo out of his reverie. “Thorin will be here soon and before he gets here, you have to know Bilbo, you should go home.” Bofur immediately tried to explain when Bilbo’s blank face turned into one of hurt. “We want you here Bilbo, we do. You have become our friend, but Bilbo” and at this point Bofur put his train on the sheets of Bilbo’s bed and took his hand in two of his own large ones, “You will die if you stay here, and I much rather know that my friend is alive and healthy across the Misty Mountains and half a world away than know he was put in the ground on our account.” Bilbo was looking at their intertwined hands not sure how to respond. His heart constricted by the swell of emotion in his chest. Both thrown within the throes of feeling utterly valued as well as tossed aside. “You must know Bilbo, that, well, Thorin will try to convince you to stay. He… well he…” Bofur cleared his throat. “He will not want you to go, he will try to find solutions. But you must understand Bilbo that although many of the creatures of Middle Earth can adapt to new surroundings, I do not believe hobbits are as lucky and there is truly no better healing power than home, speaking from recent experience.”

             Bofur smiled at Bilbo, his beard twitching and Bilbo smiled weakly in response. They stayed that way until they heard a rush of stomping outside in the the hall and as it approached the door the sound became a stutter upon stone, as if the person in question was trying to force themself to slow down. Bofur chuckled and rolled his eyes good naturedly, letting go of Bilbo’s hands and leaning back in his chair. “Thorin is horridly clueless at hiding his feelings,” he laughed and Bilbo looked at him in confusion and was about to respond when the door opened just a little too forcefully, banging against the stone wall. Bofur and Bilbo stared at the King Under the Mountain, his long hair slightly askew, his breathing barely controlled, and his fists clenched. Yet he maintained a regal air about him brought on by the rich furs he wore and his height, taller than Bilbo for sure and taller than most dwarves. He was absent his grandfather’s crown, having thrown it away when he had recovered believing, possibly rightly, that it was contaminated by dragon sickness itself. Instead he had insisted a new one be made and it was surprisingly simple. A silver circlet that had been molded to look like an oak branch around his head.

           Bofur stood up and bowed to Thorin and in return the King raised his hand, indicating the toymaker need not bow then quickly said, “Leave us.”

           Bofur retrieved his train from Bilbo’s bed and began to walk out. When he was just at the door behind Throin he turned around and gave Bilbo a meaningful look. Bilbo thought it must have been some kind of encouragement but he sat there utterly paralyzed under Thorin’s intense gaze.

           “Your Majesty,” Bilbo said weakly, and he could feel his face heat up. “How can I be of service?” Bilbo mentally began to kick himself as Thorin proceeded to stare at him, his gaze no less intense.

           “Do not address me as such, Master Baggins,” Thorin said, “I think we both know you of all people do not need to give me any titles. In your presence I don’t deserve them.” Bilbo could have sworn Thorin’s shoulders had slumped just a bit and although Thorin’s voice could never be soft it had not sound angry, fierce, or proud.

           “You must not address me as Master Baggins then,” Bilbo said lightly, trying to smile. “I think Bilbo will suffice under the circumstances.” He blatantly ignored the other half of what Thorin had said. He had no idea how to reassure the King that even after everything he did deserve those titles. Bilbo thought, selfishly, it was because he had always liked the way “Thorin” rolled off his lips. The name of a friend, not a king. Thorin continued to stare at Bilbo and the hobbit began to fidget under his gaze. “Sit down?” he asked, not knowing what else to say. Thorin blinked and slowly obliged, taking the seat Bofur had been using.

            Bilbo opened his mouth to say something but suddenly his mouth was dry. He closed his mouth, swallowed, and then tried again. Nothing. As Bilbo tried for a third time Thorin took this advantage and spoke first, “Whatever your illness, we can fix it. If Oin cannot we will… simply call upon the Mirkwood elves,” Thorin gritted his teeth, as if the words pained him. “It will all be fine.”

           “Thorin, my illness is something no one can cure,”

           “Nonsense!”

           “Don’t be stubborn Thorin.”

           “You are the one who is being stubborn, refusing to even try to mend yourself!”

           “Don’t you dare say I have not tried to get better!” Bilbo roared, eyes suddenly alight with fury and Thorin had to actually restrain himself from scooting his chair back. However, he leveled a glare at Bilbo. Bilbo went on, “Now you listen to me, Thorin Oakenshield, I have tried to get better, by ignoring the cold rock, by climbing the gate to desperately gulp the fresh air, waiting, sleeping, calling on Tauriel for aid but it is no use. A hobbit cannot live here Thorin, surrounded by stone and darkness. We were not made of rock as Mahal made you and I bloody will not be told what is best for me, you are King Under the Mountain but you do Not. Rule. Me.”

            Thorin sat in his seat, utterly speechless. Bilbo refused to release his glare upon Thorin. No, Bilbo was going to survive for the good of himself and, ultimately whether the blasted dwarf knew it or not, for the good of Thorin. When Thorin finally spoke it sounded almost pathetic, “Hobbits live in the earth.” Bilbo sighed.

            “The earth lets things grow in it, Thorin,” Bilbo said softly, tentatively reaching out a hand to place on the King’s shoulder. Thorin stiffened but Bilbo did not remove his cold palm, fingers squeezing gently. “The earth… The earth is warm. Hobbits garden and plants grow from our holes in the Shire. The earth lets us grown. Our windows let in the sunshine to give us energy, we have access to rain to quench our thirst, we were provided for in the way Eru knew we would thrive… I…” Somehow Bilbo’s other hand found what he needed and slowly, he lifted his hand to level with Thorin’s averted gaze. “I cannot grow in stone. We cannot grow here.”

             In Bilbo’s hand rested the acorn he had taken from Beorn’s garden. Thorin knew, studying it, that he could not keep the young hobbit. If the hobbit died, he would drown in the knowledge that Thorin had killed one of the last living treasures he had.

_All that is gold does not glitter_ …

           “What if the gold lust returns?” Thorin croaked, using one hand to close the one Bilbo held the acorn with and then gently laid his forehead against it. “What if I cannot rule?”

            Bilbo tried to force a chuckle. “Even Kings need holidays, so they not? If you ever feel the pull of gold, you are welcome for a reprieve in the Shire. I know the road over the Misty Mountains is treacherous, but over the next few years you must make arrangements between Erebor and the Blue Mountains.” Bilbo finally smiled. It was weak, real, and Thorin could not see it. So he leaned his head over their own hands, the acorn clasped between them, in order to press their foreheads gently together. Bilbo could feel the heat and sweat of Thorin’s brow, trace the lines in his face with his own, and he inhaled the scent of Thorin. Metal and wet stone did not smell so horrible when Thorin Oakenshield wore its mountain musk. Bilbo closed his eyes.

             “My home can be your rest stop and, if you want,” Bilbo hesitated slightly before continuing, “I can be your comfort.”

             There was only a brief moment of silence, one fraught with sweet tension and meaning but before Thorin could even open his mouth a loud knock came at the door.

             “Uncle!” It was Fili. “Uncle!”

             “For the sake of Mahal, what is it?” Thorin roared, ripping his head away from Bilbo’s, his hands dropping to his sides, and his fists clenching.

             “Uncle!” Fili exclaimed again bursting into the room now, followed closely by a now miraculously walking Kili. “We have unexpected news.”

             “Unless I am about to find out to my great joy that Thranduil is dead or we’ve miraculously solved our crop problem for this winter I do not wish to hear of it.”

              “Mum is here!”

              Thorin’s face lost all trace of color, he gulped, and if Bilbo had not been utterly taken aback by seeing Thorin, King Under the Mountain, well and truly afraid before he would have laughed until his sides split.

              “She’s going to kill me.”


End file.
